This Day Gives Birth to Itself 

“Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me.” ~Dickens

 

Christmas at dawn,

the city bathed in salt

anticipating snow.

Sitting on the sofa

in a silent light,

I watch the day

give birth to itself.

How effortless

it seems, yet

how arduous.

Each new hour,

this very moment,

nothing can keep

from remaining

full of

the possible.

 

Yet the mind

can’t help but

reach backward,

recalling

what it’s learned;

how it survived

heartbreak,

how it learned

to live on its own.

But longing’s

not of the mind.

It can’t be

stepped out of

like a thought.

It’s what we feel

that arranges

the world.

 

Let’s decide

today,

we too,

will be

a poem

that writes

itself.

 

Cold air penetrates

the smudged pane

like light through

a glass eye.

This room was

made for morning,

for light to break

down its door.

We needn’t beg you

into the room.

Where is the child

in all this radiance

when it’s hardly

possible

to look directly

at the sun?

 

Each day is

a foundling

swathed in

hand-me-downs

yearning to

walk amongst us.

If we take it up

in our arms

and press it

lovingly to

our heart,

our care

will make it holy.

 

12/26/22